A Punkin A Day
by Giovanna Farina
Summary: We all know Shanks as the lovable, yet powerful pirate he is today. So strong even the heavens break apart when he fights. But you know, Shanks didn't start out that way. So how did he get to where he is today? Trial and error, of course.


As a kid, the future-pirate-captain Red-Haired Shanks liked to do silly things like take dares. Well, it wasn't so much that he liked to do it as much as he liked the attention it brought him. Being a mere apprentice in an experienced man's world, he and all his fellow apprentice pirates took what they could get in the way of attention from their superiors, even though mostly it was only an odd glance or look of disbelief, or if they were lucky, they might hear "Grow up," uttered in an irritated tone.

Still he and his friends would never cease to try and earn the approbation of the men they were under, much to their elder's chagrin. Of course, the boys would rarely do it without an adult around. That would be unnecessary, seeing as they already had their own sort of youthful synergy. Instead, they worked together--well, at least for the most part--boys will be boys, right?--to torment their superiors into respecting them.

For example, take the time he was dared to eat raw pumpkin; he thought it over a bit then decided he was more than manly enough to take on this challenge. He sliced a piece of the rind, bit off a piece of that, and began to masticate. (That's always where life turns sour, isn't it? The first time you take a bite of raw pumpkin.) Actually, he didn't think it was too bad. At least, not the fruit part, which was the only part he dared to try. Luckily, none of the other boys brought up the subject of the mush inside the pumpkin. He munched at his piece as if it were a watermelon while his fellow apprentices split their sides laughing.

Yes, yes, it was all well and good at first. Every day after that he'd be dared to eat some more pumpkin, and every day he and his friends would be chased out of the kitchen by the exasperated chef. The end of that week soon came and young Shanks commenced with his new daily ritual of pumpkin-eating. This time, however, the boys were getting bored of the same old trick and talked him into eating more than twice the usual amount before they were found by the chef and chased out.

What they didn't realize, though, that the same pumpkin they'd been chewing on the last few days was now beginning to rot inside. They quickly realized it soon after when Shanks came down with a severe food poisoning. The irate chef explained to the captain what had been going on and the rest of the rotting pumpkins were promptly thrown out; as for Shanks, once he was well, he got the scolding of his life from his captain and was forbidden to be in the kitchen without supervision ever again. Needless to say, Shanks wasn't in the mood to look for something to eat anyway.

Depending on how well you knew Shanks, you might think that would've been the end of it. But Shanks just didn't know how to leave well enough alone.

A couple weeks after Shanks recovered from his food poisoning, he and the other younger crewmates were assigned the job of painting the rails of the ship. They took their paintbrushes and paint cans and set out Tom Sawyer style. Things were going well until one of the boys brought up what had been named "the pumpkin episode" by the chef. Shanks pulled his straw hat over his reddening face and continued his painting while the other boys laughed among themselves at the retrospection of the expression on his face upon learning that the entire crew had heard all about his little slip-up.

"I bet you wouldn't do it agin," one of the older boys, named Buggy, started to taunt him. Shanks just nodded in affirmation.

"YOU can get in trouble with the cap'n if you want, but I'm sure not gonna. And I'm not gonna eat that punkin crap again." This was true. The unspeakable memories had it already taken care of.

"Yeh, maybe not with a punkin, but you wouldn't do the same thing with something else, I bet." The other boy stood and looked around for inspiration. "What if we dared you to…drink paint?"

Shanks eyed the paint bucket for a moment as some of the boys sniggered at the ludicrous thought. "Do it, do it! We dare ya!" a few of the boys egged him on, excited by the potential pandemonium.

"Drink it yerself," Shanks turned back to Buggy and scoffed.

"Oh, so yer a wussy kid, eh?" the boy crossed his arms and jeered back. "C'mon, it's not like it's gonna go rotten like that punkin did. It's just a little paint. What can it hurt? Besides, you're only a wussy little kid if yer afraid of a little dare like that." (Where that logic came from, only God knows. Maybe it came from watching grown men chugging down another, well-known vile-tasting liquid and thoroughly enjoying it. We all know booze and paint aren't entirely alike, but you have to admit, there are some similarities.)

"I'm not AFRAID. I just don't wanna." Shanks put his nose in the air and caressed the rails with his paintbrush.

"You got no good reason not to. Unless it's cause you're scared." Buggy sneered at Shanks, arms still crossed.

"You dunno that. You can't read my mind." Shanks shot back. He didn't have to look up from his painting to know almost everyone within earshot was staring at him and his challenger; and as much as he loved attention, this was starting to make him feel uneasy.

"I don't have to read your mind to know that you're a yellow, snivelin' little coward." Buggy said loudly. He knew they had everyone's attention and took advantage of it. He didn't mind the thought of having witnesses to back up his theory once it had been proved.

Shanks' whole body twitched in frustration. He had had enough. He stomped over to the can of paint, snatched it up in his hands, and lifted it to lips.

Next thing he knew, half of it was gone. That was the last thing remembered after that. He passed out and hit the ground with a thud. A guilty Buggy crept away from the crime scene as panic ensued.

It took the silly boy several more dares--and years--before he TRULY realized that people look up to you for what you do, not what you say. To him, the most effective course of defensive action was and always remained a good sock right in the Adam's apple of the offending party, although, as he grew, he took his course of defensive action less and less; eventually he learned that if he was going to throw a punch, it had better be worth the commotion and trouble it would cause. Then there came a day when he decided the only reason it was ever REALLY worth it was when someone else--whether it was someone he cared deeply for or not--was in the need of help.

Funny...wouldn't you THINK all this would cure him of his deep fondness of being the hot topic of discussion and center of attention?


End file.
